A Lasting Impression

Laurent,” Adelicia continued, her tone instructive. “Let no one define how you see yourself . . . save God alone. See yourself through His eyes and His strength, and you’ll see who you can be despite being who you are.” A dark brow rose. “But see yourself through your own eyes, and you’ll be left to question, and to doubt, subject to the whims and wishes of others who will not have your best at heart. As experience has taught you in a rather harsh manner.”
    Moments passed, and finally Claire stood. She moved to the side of the desk, and with a grace and humility that caused Sutton to suck in a breath, she curtsied deep, her head bowed low. Adelicia’s chin trembled the slightest bit before Claire rose and wordlessly walked to the door.
    Adelicia stood behind the desk. “And just where, may I ask, do you think you’re going, Miss Laurent?”
    Claire stopped and looked back, her hand on the doorknob. “My belongings are packed, and”—she gestured to Sutton—“Mr. Monroe has offered to drive me into town. Reverend and Mrs. Bunting have opened a room to me in their home, until the trial is over.”
    “That’s going to be most inconvenient for me, Miss Laurent. Because with my being gone to Angola, and you having apparently stayed here to traipse over hill and dale painting the countryside, we have much work to do.”
    Claire took in a quick breath. “But . . . I was under the impression that—”
    “That I was dismissing you from your duties?”
    Claire nodded, eyes watchful.
    “Then your impression was false , Miss Laurent.” Adelicia said nothing for a moment, and the words hung in the silence, rife with meaning. “Which, I trust, is—and henceforth will be—no longer the case.”
    Claire hiccupped a sob, fresh tears coming. Sutton looked between the two women, not just a little surprised, and felt his own chest tighten.
    “Th-thank you, Mrs. Acklen. I . . . don’t know how to tell you how much—”
    “Yes, yes.” Mrs. Acklen made a dismissive gesture. “You can thank me after I tell you—both of you—that come June the twenty-seventh there’s going to be a wedding reception here at Belmont. Mine and Dr. Cheatham’s.”
    Sutton raised his brow, though not surprised at the news. “Best wishes on your engagement, ma’am.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Monroe. You and I have a fair amount of work to do before then as well. But for you, Miss Laurent, I’ve already compiled the guest list.” Adelicia smiled her sweetest and handed Claire a notebook. “We’re planning to invite two thousand of our closest friends. Give or take.”
    Claire studied the notebook for a moment, then wiped her tears. “It will be my extreme pleasure to plan your reception, Mrs. Acklen. And almost three months away”—she managed a tremulous smile—“whatever shall I do with all that time?”
    “I expect a good portion of it will be spent in court. I do hope you have a good attorney, Miss Laurent.”
    Claire nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Mr. Holbrook will be representing me.”
    Sutton felt Adelicia’s stare. “Actually, Miss Laurent . . . there’s been a change of counsel in your case.”
    Claire looked up at him, fragile hope in her eyes.
    “Well . . .” Adelicia looked at them both. “It seems your fate is in very capable hands, Miss Laurent.”
    “Yes,” Claire whispered. “It is.”
    Sutton and Claire were nearly out the door when he heard the all-too-familiar words.
    “One more thing, Miss Laurent.” Seated at her desk, Adelicia peered up. “Forgiveness may be an attribute of the strong, but this is one issue upon which I do not wish my strength to be tested again. Is that clear?”
    “Perfectly, ma’am.”
    Sutton closed the door behind them, not missing the tiniest smile on Adelicia’s face.

Epilogue

    Thursday, June 27, 1867
The Belmont Estate

    C laire peered through a front window of the art gallery at the hundreds of clothed tables situated around the gardens, then at the endless array of twinkling lights strung from every tree and shrub and trellis and gazebo. “I hope it doesn’t rain.”
    “Rain?” Sutton said behind her. “On the night of Mrs. Adelicia Hayes Franklin Acklen Cheatham’s wedding reception? After you’ve planned everything to perfection? The heavens wouldn’t dare.”
    She turned back only to find he wasn’t looking at her. But seeing the focus of his attention warmed her.
    He’d hung An American Versailles in the art gallery, but the placard beside the